Page 69 of Deja New
“Irrelevant! Help me up and we’ll sit at the turtle table andyou can ask me anything you want while I drink juice and don’t stir mustard into it.”
“Anything? Really?” Then: “‘Mustard’?”
“Less asking, more pulling.”
When they were at the table and Leah was sipping her mustard-free juice: “Yes. Anything. But I warn you, any sex-related questions will be awkward and we’ll probably have to avoid eye contact for a few days.”
“Just... gross. No.” He leaned forward. “Did you ever like it?”
I’m going to assume he’s talking about Insighting.“Sometimes,” she admitted. “I’ve been able to help a lot of clients.” She thought of Chart #6291, formerly Clara Barton, currently chief of neurosurgery at Massachusetts General. And Chart #5272, formerly Ludwig van Beethoven, currently the author ofMusical Anhedonia Hath No Charms(“How can I be him? I hate classical music. And concerts. And my hearing’s fine.”). The actions and consequences from their past lives bled into their present ones, paralyzing them. Leah had helped with that.
It wasn’t always about making a mark, she’d explained to a construction worker who used to be Albert Einstein—the month before she met Archer. “You don’t have to live up to your last life. You love being an electrician. That’s great. Do you know how many people I meet who hate their jobs? Do you know how many peopleanyonemeets who hate their jobs? To be honest, I’m a little envious. You make good money, you and your husband are raising a beautiful family, you love your life, what’s the problem?”
“Well, after my folks had me tested...”
“Can I tell you something? Pretexting often brings more problems than it solves. It’s like an IQ test: It narrowseveryone’s expectations. ‘You have a genius IQ so you’d better invent something wonderful. Or cure something terrible. Make your mark or you’ve wasted your life. No pressure.’ Expecting children to live up to that is begging for trouble.
“Pretexting does the same thing: ‘You used to be Alexander Graham Bell, so we’re already talking to MIT since you’ll have an incredible life and become world famous by your thirtieth birthday.’ It’s crap. It’s a straitjacket.”
Other patients had the reverse problem, and she had helped them understand they didn’t have to livedowntheir past lives, either. “So you were a necrophiliac who targeted landladies until you were hanged in 1928?*You’re not compelled to kill, you don’t have to write letters of condolence to the victims’ great-great-grandchildren. And if you’rethatworried your past will bleed into your present, buy. Don’t rent.”
Well, that one was perhaps oversimplified. But never mind. The bottom line is...
“Sometimes the work is beyond rewarding. Since most people only ever hear me complaining, it’s only fair to mention that there are many days when I like what I do. It goes beyond helping people in their day-to-day lives. I’ve been able to work with the police and attorneys to put away some utter degenerates. There’s satisfaction in that.”
Jack was nodding. “Okay. Sure.”
“It’s a little like being a world-famous baker who doesn’t like cake. Possessing the skill doesn’t mean you love it. Peopledemanding your cake doesn’t mean you actually like baking.”Not my best metaphor. Well, itispast midnight.
“But you’re different from me. Just like Angela’s different from me. What works for you might not help me.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Because you’re—I dunno—the Bette Davis of Insighters. Or something.”
She groaned. “Oh, my God, you’ve all got to stop that. Not least because you’ve got it wrong. Davis had natural talent that she built on. She was relentless and fearless about her craft—she liked playing monsters—and the work was always, always her number one focus. It’s why she was so mesmerizing on-screen. If you go back and watch the early films, you can almost see how each picture is a stepping-stone to the deeper characterization she found for the next.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I know.”
“Film geek.”
“Yes, well, Hollywood childhood. Those movies were my homework. And the best part—” She laughed a little, remembering. “My mom was furious when I told her she’d never been famous except for that time she’d been a serial killer—”*
“Wait,what?”
“—and she certainly wasn’t the reincarnation of Davis. Or Garland. Or Hepburn. Or anyone of note.”
“Can we circle back to your mom the serial kil—”
“The thing is, Jack, if I was the anything of Insighters, I’d be Greta Garbo: skilled, but ultimately resentful of the attention it brought and constantly tempted to exile myself.”
“Um...”
“Sometimes I can barely be bothered to try. Which makes me the jerkass of Insighters.”
“You’re not making me feel better about being a freak.”
